


By All Accounts

by Nyanoka



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: HeartGold & SoulSilver | Pokemon HeartGold & SoulSilver Versions
Genre: Child Abuse, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 14:04:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15798054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyanoka/pseuds/Nyanoka
Summary: Proton takes after his mother.





	By All Accounts

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not particularly happy with this (some parts need more details, some less, choppy transitions, etc.), but I haven't felt motivated to churn anything out in like a month or so? So this happened instead. This is also not entirely in chronological order.  
> I wanted to go a different route with Proton as well instead of going with the tried-and-true "delinquent" route that I see often with him so apologies on that. He's still the asshole you find in the Slowpoke Well, but I'm running on the logic that he cares for his Pokémon, just not for anyone else's. He's also not as "violent" as some interpretations go in this, but I couldn't find a way to include that as much without disrupting everything but it's there at points. It's also a bit too "on-the-nail" at points, but w/e. Un'beta'd.

His mother would be ashamed if she was still alive. Perhaps, she would have scolded him, yelled at him until her throat was raw and the watching darkness of his bedroom shook.

Never hit of course. He’d long outgrown it at that point in his life, grown strong enough to bear the pain of her well-meaning yet horribly misguided thrashings that happened whenever her mood soured, and her temper quickened because of a childish misstep or a mishap at work.

She’d never describe it like that of course. She had always called them “learning experiences” or “things that every child went through”, consequences to be expected because of a careless blunder. They had always been something that happened because of a fault on his part, never because of her own anger.

(“I’m doing this because I love you,” she said. “Good men are hard to find, and more so those with self-discipline.”)

By all public accounts, his mother had been a beloved member of their city, an inspiration to everyone even. She had raised him on her lonesome, earned and worked her way to a degree and then to a well-paying job while he dangled from her shoulder in a carrier or slept in a makeshift bed besides her work table.

(“A self-made woman,” most would say.)

She loved to tell him that, of how she raised him from a babe after his absentee father abandoned them to chase ridiculous, glory-seeking dreams in another region, of sleepless nights caused by his crying and the following caffeine-fueled mornings as she trudged to her classes and then to work.

She spoke to him of all of her struggles and of all of her expectations.

Never did she ask about what he wanted from life.

Neither did she speak of his father in detail, and he did not care enough to ask.

His father was nothing more than a hollow name, a relation only in word and someone who never cared enough to stay.

(“You take after me,” she said. “The same hair color and eyes.”)

By all accounts, he had had a fairly normal, if generous, childhood. He was fed well, and he was clothed richly in pristine, foreign-stitched, imported fashions. There was never a smear of dirt or the shame of a used price tag attached to them.

They were fashionable, but never what _he_ would pick. They were all garments his mother chose, things that would show _her_ taste, _her_ success, rather than any preferences of his own.

(“Look your best no matter what,” she said. “Others will judge your upbringing, your relations, based on appearances.”)

He was educated at a local private school, paid in full by Silph Co. and as a perk of his mother’s position. The company liked to fund its employees’ expenses; it made them look good in the public eye. There wasn't much more to it than that, no “goodness of the President's heart” or anything of that sort.

He didn’t cause much trouble then, but neither was he well-loved by anyone other than his teachers.

He was too sullen, too quiet, and too disinterested in everything else besides his current assignments.

Unlike other children, he never seemed to care when his peers whispered excitedly in-between classes, about imagined Pokémon journeys and of fame and fortune and of renowned Trainers.

(“Absolutely not. Pokémon Training isn’t a secure job,” she said. “Don’t you want to be a doctor instead? It’s equally as profitable and prestigious, less dangerous as well.”)

Instead, he went on from elementary to middle school to high school, more focused on the traditional aspects of Kanto’s education system rather than any of the more “colorful” aspects such as battle theory and type advantage like the majority of his peers did.

He spent his nights studying biology textbooks and mathematical formulas, swaddling the budding (always existing and relentless really) anger within his heart with half-formed reveries and empty thoughts and self-promises.

There are many things that he wants, but they’re not what’s _good_ for him.

(His mother never did like those electives. “Useless and a waste of time,” she said. “I remember when classes were meant to enrich people, not turn them into them into delinquents and slackers.”)

He excelled, made top marks, and held himself calmly.

Rarely was he reprimanded by authority, but he wasn’t particularly popular among his peers.

Outside of his looks he was considered… boring, uptight, a stickler for rules among a multitude of other descriptors. He wasn’t fun or cheery or anyone interesting or worth remembering.

He was everything that he was not.

(He remembers then the one time he let go, let his emotions truly show. He remembers snarling teeth, a plethora of curses, and bruised, bleeding fists. He also remembers his mother, her mouth creased into a frown, and the night after.)

He was considered bright and observant, someone who’d likely grow up, full of honors and titles and near-useless résumé fillers, who’d go on to some fancy university with an unpronounceable name and then to some nameless, if well-paying white-collar desk job.

He was someone to look out for. He was a kid raised on wealth and security and expected to uphold that standard.

(“Another trust fund brat,” his co-worker would say with disdain and a hint of envy. “They’re born with a silver spoon in their mouth and no common sense.”)

He was quiet, unassuming, not quite soft-spoken but not quite loud either, not quite popular but not entirely unknown either.

He was someone, plain brown slacks and all, who you would expect to see in a classroom lecture hall or a student lab rather than mucking about on the road in dirty jackets and ripping jeans.

Thus, it was surprising that he had decided to go on a journey, right after high school and before college.

It wasn’t uncommon for people to go on journeys later in life rather than at eleven, but it was _him_ , a boy that seemed so thoroughly disinterested in Pokémon that even his home was devoid of them.

It was a gap year, one that he would spend on Pokémon rather than anything “substantial” by his mother’s standards.

(She couldn’t say no unless she wanted to risk him leaving and soiling her reputation. He was almost a legal adult, not an eleven-year-old child who had no chance of escape.)

His mother had gotten him an Eevee, a purebred pedigree who dozed off often and curiously blinked at him with beady eyes whenever he tried to train it. It was a pet solely bred for show and affluence, useless for anything hardier than a pet show or an occasional run around the block.

He had tried of course. He had pitted it against the local wildlife until the Eevee loathed him, until his arms were crisscrossed with scars from near-failed escape attempts after his Pokémon fainted.

(His mother expected him to fail, having given him a Pokémon like that, pretty yet utterly hopeless. Perhaps, she wanted him to come home, setting him up for failure like that.)

Fundamentally, it wasn’t suited for battle just as he wasn’t really suited for a lab.

As a result, it’s unsurprising that he’d eventually trade it to some bright-eyed youngster for his Zubat in nearby Celadon. It had been an easy trade to make. Eevee were rare animals and fairly expensive to obtain. Even one that wasn’t suited for fighting would be valuable, even as only a trophy pet.

(“You sure? Zubat aren’t exactly rare, ya know? You can always catch one yourself.”)

Zubat weren’t exactly the rarest of Pokémon, but they were resilient and ferocious things, especially when encountered in a cave swarm.

The one he’d gotten from the trade was feisty and full of gumption, nowhere near as clean or as docile as the Eevee initially had been. In fact, it had tried to bite him, inject him full of its venom, when he first released it from its Poké Ball.

Of course, that was what he liked about it. It was a bit mean (and perhaps in need of a long bath), but it knew exactly what it wanted from him and from the world.

(He remembers how his mother screamed at him when he returned home for a brief respite on his way to the Saffron Gym.)

He didn’t care about badges, not really. He wasn’t collecting them for admiration or even for some misguided attempt at changing his mother’s opinions.

What he liked was the battle that came with them, the thrill and fury that arose from such a sport. He enjoyed how Golbat tore through their opponents with her fangs and wore them down with poison.

He relishes the excitement that he feels, and the dread in his opponent’s eyes as their partners fall.

It’s almost like he’s in control.

He didn’t particularly care when Sabrina inspected him with a particularly cold look either. It wasn’t any of his concern what she thought of him or his tactics.

(She hands him his second badge with some scorn. He only half-listens to what she says until he hears, “You are no different than your mother.”)

Days turn into months, months turn into years, and he changes bit by bit. He fills the cracks in his being with blood and noise and repairs what he can with excess.

He travels town to town, city to city, and day by day. He never really stays in one place for too long, not even when warnings of Team Rocket begin to appear on every Pokémon Center’s display system.

He’s not a coward, he thinks. He doesn’t stop traveling even when the roads become near-devoid of Trainers and his funds run low as a result.

(He doesn’t call his mother for help even when his stomach rumbles and Golbat whines and nips at him, not enough to injure, just enough to show her displeasure and hunger. They were far past the days when she would attempt to intentionally hurt him.)

He never really calls or visits his mother anymore, and she does the same for him. He’s disowned in all but documentation at this point, and they’re finally strangers in name.

He doesn’t really care when she becomes bedridden either, probably a byproduct of her job he thinks.

He only learns about her illness from one of Saffron’s local news channels as the nurse heals his Golbat and chides him for pushing her too hard on too little food.

(“A strange and sudden disease,” the doctor said. “We’re not certain what’s causing it.”)

Frankly, he didn’t give two shits what she would think or do if she saw him now. A woman long dead to him had no more say in his life any more than his father would.

He travels to Fuchsia to Cerulean to Vermilion and so forth. There’s no real rhyme or reason to where he goes outside of the battles. He doesn’t really add anyone else to his team either outside of a Weezing on Cinnabar.

It’s not that he thinks he couldn’t handle more than two. He absolutely has the ability to (and the seven badges pinned to the inside of his jacket attest to that fact).

He just didn’t _need_ more than that.

The two of them are enough for him. He doesn't need or care about anyone else really. He wasn’t a collector, a scientist, or even a doctor.

He was just a traveler like anyone else.

His clothes are worn, and he looks like himself now.

(Team Rocket wasn’t his salvation or anything rose-colored like that. It was an outlet and a means to an end. He looked like he’d fit in with them anyway.)

Golbat hasn’t evolved even when they reach their final gym, the one located in Viridian. He’s certain that she loves him enough just as much as Weezing does and just as much he does in turn for them.

Perhaps she just preferred her current form?

But, he doesn’t mind all too much. Golbat was just as capable as any other member of her species, and he was certain she could match any Crobat fang for fang and poison for poison.

(He made a note to procure an Eviolite for her. They weren’t exactly common in Kanto, but it would be a nice asset for her in battle, an extra form of protection.)

He ends up dominating a majority of the gym. Despite the type disadvantage they held, Golbat and Weezing easily work their way through the Trainers like locusts swarming an unprotected harvest.

It’s only when he reaches the Gym Leader, a well-dressed man in his forties, that he finds difficulty.

Weezing manages to wear down both Tauros and Dugtrio with Toxic and Smokescreen before exploding on Nidoqueen for a double knockout.

From there, it was an uphill battle with Golbat. She tries of course. She’s just as vicious and stubborn as he is, and she does what she can with her repertoire.

She avoids Rhydon’s attacks as best as she can and bears the pain when Nidoking’s Blizzard grazes her wings and gives just as much back.

She looks ragged and worn and _wild_ (just as he probably does) by the time his opponent sends out his last Pokémon, a Persian.

It’s a formidable opponent, and it shrugs off most of Golbat’s attacks. It’s almost like it was toying with them with the way it launches its attacks, languid but with purpose.

She holds on for him, tries to, until it’s too much, and she falls, wings clipped by a Thunderbolt.

He recalls her with gritted teeth, and tries his best to look less animalistic, less bitter at his loss. He accepts the Gym Leader’s handshake and ignores the calculating look in the older man’s eyes, more focused on healing his Pokémon than on any ulterior motives.

He’s approached by a man just as he’s leaving the city’s border.

(Despite all rumors, he didn’t join _just_ because he wanted to hurt people. There’s a bit more to it than that, but it’s not something he’s inclined to tell. It's better for him if everyone assumes he's nothing more than a sadistic beast.)

He sighs and shakes his head slightly, an attempt to clear his thoughts.

It didn’t matter anymore, yet it did.

But, he wouldn’t think too long on it, refuses to think too long on it, refuses to let the memories fester and stir further.

Instead, he adjusts his threadbare cap, brushing away stray strands of green hair, and waits, Golbat restless in her scuffed yet well-loved Poké Ball and Weezing snoozing next to her in his.

By the sounds further down the bridge, someone had almost reached the end.

He had a job to do, and he wanted to look his best.

**Author's Note:**

> Giovanni's team is his Pokemon Stadium one, and I'm also aware that canonly, Proton's Pokémon are all male, but I didn't think it mattered enough to keep.  
> I'm a bit iffy on the tense changes in some places, but ultimately I decided to keep them.


End file.
